Silent Conversations
Fourth Year
James Potter had grown to become a loathing young man.
He sat on his bed at the crack of dawn, hearing the minutes tick away, a depressing moment at a time. It had become a ritual of his: to let the night slip away from him in a series of slow, tedious seconds that stretched for too long as his thoughts wandered off into the darkest corners of the night. These thoughts, James had learned—or maybe been forced to learn—did not dare make an appearance during the light of day. They hid and sneaked around, like thieves—like thieves of his identity—and rummaged through every corner of his being. These thoughts, they were loud.
At times, they seemed to be all James could hear. Every night, religiously, James Potter tiptoed tentatively, heart racing, hands shaking, into his bed, as if his greatest enemy was lurking within the sheets, waiting to strike and kill him. And every night, religiously, James Potter failed at falling asleep. It was an exponential process, a virus of his own creation, a virus that only needed one night, one moment of weakness, to spread like a plague.
You did not let the thought in, because once you let it in, there was no letting it out. There was no getting it out. There was no escaping it. There was no cure for it.
It was an exponential process. Once the damage was done, the moment of weakness passed, and the consequences began to show immediately. First, in small acts of bizarre behavior, exemplified in awkward conversations and in mastering the art of avoiding reality by avoiding social interactions—if those interactions were directed at certain people, or a certain person, that was just a coincidence, and in the medical analysis James Potter had drawn of his condition, it was not important to notice—and then, finally, in a ginormous amount of self-loathing.
James Potter had grown to become a loathing young man. What no one ever told you about losing yourself to your own mind was that it was never just about one thing, one moment, or even one person. James Potter was not lost in the darkness, nor did he become lost when the light of day faded away; James Potter had always been lost—lost in a labyrinth of his own creation. A labyrinth that slowly grew in size and complexity ever since he became conscious of his own consciousness. This labyrinth housed and fed on his insecurities and fears.
On shame and a desperate need to be loved.
This labyrinth guarded the worst parts of James Potter—the parts that were rotten and broken. The ones he discarded in his quest to construct the perfect persona he so desperately sought.
And what James never realized was that with every machete stroke he took to his being, forcing a piece of himself out, he broke, too, the wings that kept him safe from the mess below. He flew all his life above the labyrinth, oblivious to the darkness lurking beneath, safe in the hands of his inner child.
But children cannot stay children forever. And James Potter had stopped being a child a long time ago. He stopped being a child the moment he placed the weight of the world on his shoulders. A weight that never belonged to him, a weight that he invented, but nonetheless carried with burden. And finally, one day, after one last, defining strike to his identity, so forceful that it resonated deep within his soul, James Potter fell.
Letting go of any trace of that childish dream that once defined him.
Life inside the labyrinth broke any semblance of self James could possess. His identity shattered into a million tiny pieces, scattered around him like sharp-edged fragments of glass, too painful to grab, too unbearable to bear. A massacre of self. James was lost and losing himself.
At night, when he lost not only his sense of direction but also of sight, the noises, the ruminating implications of his feelings, the haunting voices of his childhood bullies, the ringing expectations that pressured him everywhere, the shameful whispers of truths he dared not voice, became too loud to ignore. They invaded his senses, colonizing his essence. They left no room to be silenced, numbed, or compartmentalized.
They led to sleepless nights and manic behaviors.
And then, during the day, with heavy eyes, tired bones, and fractured resilience, James Potter was left feeling like an imposter in his own skin. Most days felt like a dream, a blur of time in which James was merely a guest. Interactions became fruitless exchanges of words that left him feeling numb and exhausted.
During the day, silence haunted him. His mind, so full of hysteria at night, was left empty and unrecognizable. Most times, James felt like an imposter to his own feelings. He felt disconnected from his being, tired and boneless. It was as if his own shame and self-loathing were alienated from him too.
Perhaps it was because he no longer owned an identity. Perhaps it was because acknowledging the monsters that ran through his mind at night as his own was not something he was ready to face.
Perhaps all this massacre was only his mind protecting him from himself.
Regardless of the 'why's,' the 'how's,' or the 'what's,' James Potter felt like a knot, tangled up in such a way that the knotting feeling in his chest, which made him sink into himself, was impossible to unravel. The knot left little space for anything other than ache to reside in James. Concepts like confessions, heart-to-heart conversations, or even, sinfully, feelings did not count for space in James, and yet, even when they urged to get out, they couldn’t.
His voice felt forced at all times, desperate to be voiced, and yet, still, silence reigned. None of the vicious little, big things James wanted to get out ever left.
Get it out
get it out
Out out out
out
Out
Out of his chest.
James felt so stuffed, so consumed all the time, and still so empty all the time.
Empty
E
M
P
T
Y
Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty.
James Potter had grown to become a loathing young man.
Above all, he loathed silence.
The silence that was forced upon him, that had taken permanent residence in his life. Sometimes he yearned for silence, prayed for it every night, and it never showed up—a god that refused to acknowledge its devotees. However, most times, he prayed for it to go away.
It was a bittersweet relationship James had fostered with silence.
He learned there were different kinds of silence, and he was unfriendly with every facet of it that possibly existed. He loathed it, and yet, he couldn’t seem to evade it.
He noticed its heavy presence for the first time the day Remus Lupin woke up late and, in a frantic rush for the first time ever, changed in front of him. His back was exposed, and suddenly, James became incapable of stripping his eyes away from the way Remus’ bones stuck out as he changed. All of a sudden, James was incapable of thinking about anything else.
And then Remus was gone, cursing under his breath, the door closing behind him, and James was left with a ringing silence. A silence that mimicked truths—a game of charades, obvious in its meaning but impossible to pinpoint.
After that day, like the way mistakes stick out once they are pointed out, James noticed the way that mimicking silence followed him everywhere. He perceived how that silence followed him home and lurked near him as his mother inquired about his love life.
The words he did not utter, the thoughts he did not voice, the realizations he did not even give place to as thoughts, hugged him and did not let go. They turned into a blanket around his soul, a blanket of silence that covered his every interaction.
Silences of confessions waiting to be heard.
James Potter noticed it, the way his descent into madness, into the labyrinth, proceeded from the discovery of Remus Lupin’s broad shoulders. And it was silence that drew the red lines, connected the dots to such a fact, and tried to force the implied truths behind such a line of events.
James loathed silence.
Loathed the truths it blanketed.
...
For all that James Potter used to love the concept of returning to Hogwarts, as the beginning of the fourth year loomed closer, that time around, James was filled with a sense of dread.
The implications of the silence that had been born mere months ago, the product of a mediocre moment, an instant insignificant in its content, lingered in James’ consciousness. It stuck around, and then, for lack of any proof against the hypothesis, James convinced the silence, convinced his consciousness, that the implications were a fluke in the system.
A misremembered moment. A fallacy his brain had fallen for.
But however promising that line of thought seemed to be, as strong as that argument sounded, it had no evidence to back it up. It was composed of air, and a single needle could pop its logic. Therefore, James understood the start of the school year as the experiment that would either make or break him.
He would see Remus Lupin again. Once was a coincidence, but twice was the start of a pattern James did not want to see develop.
With a heavy heart and a bizarre sense of déjà vu, James Potter grabbed the handle of his dorm door and pulled it open, consciously slow. Conscious of the fact that he had spent too long wandering through Hogwarts' premises for Remus not to already be in the dorm.
James was a fucking coward. He was not unaware of this fact. He did not spend half a day making small talk and helping first-year students on their first day because he was kind-hearted. He did not let the minutes of the day tick away, one ray of sun at a time, because the mere thought of entering his dorm and being left in close proximity, alone, with Remus made him want to bolt.
James Potter did not spend the entire day with Lily Evans and Mary MacDonald, helping first-year Muggle-borns adjust to the concept of magic, because he particularly loved the idea of comforting sobbing children who more often than not cried.
And it wasn’t that James wouldn’t have done all of these things either way—he had signed up for them long before the silent implications began to follow him everywhere he went—it was more that he had, perhaps cowardly, let them linger for longer than was strictly necessary.
But however long he stalled, the lights of the castle, the fading sun, and the growing wind catched up to him. The corridors became vacant of people, their laughter and quiet conversation leaving as did their presence, a lingering silence, a known silence, lingering with James. The castle grew quieter, and James’ excuses empty.
The silence defining.
However long he stalled, for he did, James, still, found himself, opening the door to his dorm; a defining silence turned into a screaming truth. At that moment, the door opened, James decided he had a separate demon. People had angels, but James had demons. Demons who worked tirelessly to make his life a mockery.
“James, hi!” Remus cheered,
James was paralyzed in place, his hand still clenched to the door handle, his eyes darting around the room in conscious, desperate means to conceptualize all the realizations that were trying to cement themselves as reality in James’ life.
It was too much, James decided. Too much stimuli. Too much of a parody.
It had to be a joke.
For all James stalled, he, still, found himself, alone, in a room with Remus Lupin.
Remus Lupin
R E M U S L U P I N
Remus Lupin Remus Lupin Remus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus Lupin Remus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus LupinRemus Lupin.
Fucking Remus Lupin.
With his brown eyes, and broad shoulders. With his sweet smile, and his scarred cheeks. With his messy sandy hair, and his broad shoulders. With his grandpa sweaters, and his brown eyes. With his sweet smile, and his scarred cheeks. With his broad shoulders, and his big hands.
Fucking Remus Lupin. With his fucking presense.
Faintly, over the sound of a popping bubble, James remembered; once was a coincidence, but twice was the start of a pattern.
A fucking pattern. A pattern fixitiating over Remus fucking Lupin.
With his brown eyes, and broad shoulders. With his sweet smile, and his scarred cheeks. With his messy sandy hair, and his broad shoulders. With his grandpa sweaters, and his brown eyes. With his sweet smile, and his scarred cheeks. With his broad shoulders, and his big hands.
“James? Earth to James!”
James thought about bolting. About screaming, or killing himself. Any would work for him. He thought about how stupid he must have looked. Thought about the way he was staring. Knew it to be weird, knew he had to stop.
Found himself incapable to do so. Found himself not wanting to.
Found himself scarce of motive, of sense of self.
The silence stretched, as Remus studied him. As James continued to gawk. The silence stretched and the knot, with every passing second, every passing awkward tension filled second, settled deeper into James’ gut.
James felt like a knot, tangled up from his insides out. His organs messed all over. He struggled to breath, he struggled to think, he struggled to move. Every cell in him begged him to react, to do anything, at all. To at the very least leave the room.
James should have left the room. As soon as he set food in it. He should have never eventred the room in the first place. He should have made a home out of the common room. He should have never have fought with the sorting hat; if he had been sorted into Slytherin then, maybe, he’d be unhappy but he wouldn’t be standing there, watching, stuck in place as Remus strode forward, and agitated James from one side to the other.
Both his hands on James's shoulders. Both his fucking hands on James’ shoulder.
“Come on mate, what the hell has gotten into you?”
Mierda. James Thought. Me está tocando, Remus Lupin me está tocando. And then, mate. mate mate mate; amigo amigo amigo.
Amigo, James could not stop repeating that word in his head. Amigo. And it was obvious to James, that he was Remus’ friend, he had bent himself in half to make that happen. It had taken so much work, so much effort for Remus to call him a friend.
To get Remus to not hate him.
Amigo. Mierda, duele. And for some reason it still hurt when he said it. So casually, so inconsequentially. It struck James that it shouldn't hurt him. Any of it.
Desperately, James pushed Remus out of his way, breaking contact like a touch that burned. “Merlin, get off me, Remus!” Remus stumbled backward. James’ eyes saw that, and still, James’ skin felt Remus’ skin on his. His skin suddenly felt neglected, empty.
“And he comes back!”
“Who comes back?” Sirius’ voice rang behind James.
“James.”
And then Peter was there too, zigzagging around James, juggling an insane amount of food in his arms. “But he was not here before,” James realized then that he had not moved since entering the room. He still stood blocking the door, stuck in place, his Converse stuck to the floor.
Remus moved his mouth, empty words stringing out, half-formed sentences that led nowhere, and he stopped himself, as if trying to retell the previous events left him speechless. James, secretly, was grateful.
In his fruitless attempts at vocalizing, Remus set his stare at James, his eyes trying to communicate what his voice could not. Remus looked nervous, James recognized. He was searching for an explanation in James, and his hand remained clutching his arm, just over where James had thrust him. Remus pinched himself in a continuous nervous twitch. He searched James for an explanation.
An explanation James would never give him. James was a fucking coward.
“Never mind, Pete.” If Sirius or Peter noticed how the air condensed, if they noticed the growing awkwardness or if they noticed the way neither James nor Remus could really stand to watch each other, and yet they could not strip their eyes away, if they noticed the way neither boy could really breathe anymore through the heavy air, they did not mention it.
His practice at being a hypocrite, an actor, had paid off, James thought. Or his friends were fucking oblivious. There was a part of James that knew it was probably the latter. However, a skill that had borne out of a desperate need to fit in had now turned into a necessity.
And James had to believe he had mastered it. That he had become such a prodigy at smiling through the pain that no one could catch the ramifications of hurting his crooked teeth that showed through his screened smile. James had to believe it because otherwise, he’d crumble. Because trying was not enough anymore. Trying did not suffice anymore.
Just trying was not cutting it anymore.
Not when James became more and more inadequate with every fucking passing day.
“James!” Now, it was Sirius’ turn to shake him.
“Fuck off, what?”
“Someone is touchy today,” Sirius backed away, raising his hands in the air mockingly. “Either way, suck it up, I have great news, and I need you to be happy for me.”
It always started like that. With the introduction to a utopian world, where Sirius flew through the days in a fit of laughter and delusion, taking euphoria like a drug, where he found love and sought the rush of a prank and the trouble that followed.
“Oh? Good news?”
The Marauders had learned by now to expect it. They had learned to not get excited about Sirius’ start-of-term news. Especially, they had learned to let Sirius’ behavior slide. To not take it personally or seriously. But most importantly, to not believe it.
“I have found the love of my life!” Sirius sounded so sincere. “And I am going to make her fall in love with me.”
It always ended the same way too. Sooner or later, when the adrenaline of his freedom dulled, Sirius fell. One day he’d stop running and painting fake-pretend smiles. He’d cross paths with his brother or receive a letter from his mother. He’d stare at himself a moment too long in the mirror and the scars covering his thighs. He’d stumble for a second, and the next, he’d be falling.
Falling into an abyss of his mother’s creation.
“You are going to make her fall in love with you?” Peter mocked. “As if you could make anyone do anything, especially a girl.”
“You want to bet, Pettigrew?”
“Oh, you are on, Black.”
Remus laughed. During his years attending Muggle school, James had learned about recorders, and right about then, James wished he could immortalize Remus’s laugh. “This is totally barbaric. This girl, whoever she is, is a person, and—”
“Mary Macdonald,” Sirius interrupted.
“—and Mary Macdonald,” Remus corrected, “deserves better than to be a bet to win, don’t you think?”
“I mean—”
“Especially if you are as in love with her as you claim to be. By doing this bet, you have corrupted your intention with her. Now, this is no longer about your supposed love for her but about proving to Peter that you can make her like you.”
James fucking loved Remus.
“Merlin, Remus, when you put it that way, it sounds awful.”
“Maybe because it is?”
“Shut up, James!”
“So what, the bet is off then?” Peter turned to glare at Remus. “Why do you have to be a goddamn moral compass? You just cost me good money.”
“You hadn't even set a price yet! I didn’t cost you anything!”
James smiled. For all he dreaded going back to Hogwarts, he missed his friends. He loved his friends so much; they were his solar system in the making. “Come on, Pete. We’d be dead already without Remus. If he started cherry-picking when to be moral and when not to, at the very least we’d be in jail.”
“I guess you are right. Sirius would have absolutely committed murder a couple dozen times by now.”
“Hey!” Sirius complained. “Well, I’d commit two murders for sure.”
“I am not stopping you from committing those. Merlin, I would even help you.”
They all would. James would be lying through his teeth if he said he’d not spent countless sleepless nights manufacturing the perfect murder of Sirius’ parents. At first, it scared James, the morbid thoughts that were born from his anger, the violence that resided in him.
“God, Remus, that is so hot. Keep telling me stuff like that, and I’ll leave Macdonald for you.”
“Kinky,” Peter chuckled.
“You are not even dating Mary.”
“Fuck you, James.” Sirius hissed, “It is just a matter of time”
At that, Peter peeked his attention, “Oh? So you are still going to make her like you?”
“What is today? National day of picking on Sirius?”
“Every day is picking on Sirius day, you are just too easy to tease”
“Oh Pete, I missed you”
“Well, I didn’t”
It was at moments like that that James was rushed in ecstasy. A feeling of contentment so powerful that it rocked the foundations of his life to its very core. It was moments like that, watching Sirius and Peter bickering, that James struggled to grasp the hurt that followed him everywhere. It was moments like that that reminded James why he sold his soul to the devil so religiously.
It was from moments like that, smiling tenderly like a mother proud of her growing children, from where James drew motivation to keep trying. To keep living. To keep molding himself, tightening every sharp edge outside in so that no one could get hurt.
Not again.
So that the fundamental fabric of their utopian existence did not fracture.
James would not fracture that he had worked so tirelessly to create. It didn’t matter how exhausted his brain was, for lack of air, product of his constant incapability to breath and the ashing fire that has been burning him out for years. It didn’t matter the way his heart ached, confined in a tiny room that lacked color and sound, begging to be let free and be heard. It didn’t matter if his eyes felt heavy, foggy visioned, and his hands bleed in exhaustion, turning his metallic blood into a never drying ink.
It didn’t matter. Any ot it.
He didn’t matter.
“Okay this is enough, if I am going down, I’m dragging you all down with me” Sirius' statement sounded far away, like an echo that barely registered in his mind. Sometimes James hated the way he stripped from the present. How it just happened, a light flickered on and off; a switch he had no control over.
It didn’t matter. Any of it.
James didn’t matter. Not above anyone else. Because Pettigrew always came before Potter. Because Lupin came before Potter. Because Black came before Potter. They all did and they always would, and it was not just a matter of alphabetic order.
“James…” Sirius continued, draggin James’s attention, his voice screamed mischief, “Who do you like?”
‘Remus Lupin’ James almost blurted, a confession trapped in his throat that bursted to get out. “Any girl that has catched your attention?”
James could feel his friend’s eyes burning him alive, a hole to his soul melted by the intensity of their confession seeking questions. They stared, expecting an answer, and the weight of the kind of answer that James knew should follow the sound of his voice, but that did not correlate with that that sounded in his inner self, was destroying him, caging him to the floor. A weight too heavy to bear. A truth too volatile to expose to burning stares.
James despised the way silence, and its implications, took control, yet once again. Despised the way the name of a girl did not just roll out of his tongue. Despised the way he never really noticed how he did not notice the way he did not notice girls like that. The way he tried so hard to be perfect and yet, still, repeatedly, failed to be so.
Despised the way he despised himself in yet another way.
His mind reeled, burning a thousand kilometers a second, scrambling to find an adequate answer. He stared into his crumbling city, a once vibrant city– composed of thoughts and beliefs, of colors, and sounds– now mere rubble of his weaponized naivety. Within the maze James raced from open breach to open breach, reaching dead ends, searching for adequacy; for a name, for a person, for even a flight, slinky emotion that would communicate adequacy.
He looked for a girl, any girl; any name. The silence in the room screamed.
“James?” Sirius' words echoed through the walls of the maze, just as James reached another dead end, and desperate, decided to carve his own escape.
A shovel – a lie – pushed by peer pressure, “Lily” his murmur dented the first layer of the wall, and then, because once you do it once, it was easier to do it twice, “Lily Evans” he repeated, with a false confidence that only the hearing of a crumbling wall could provide.
…
James Potter was an awful person.
He was becoming more and more accustomed to such a fact. He carried a list, with a dotted, and descriptive retelling of every truthfully awful thing he did and thought. It was a parody to James, to compare this list to the one his peers kept, always cheery and exultant about James’s alleged good will. But James was not a naturally good person, not even a decent one. He was brought to sweat and strain just trying to be good enough.
This list James kept proved that. He kept it, faithfully, as a remainder of the despicable being that lived within him.
James Potter was an awful person.
Remus Lupin, who James deserted, could testify to such a fact.
Peter Pettigrew, who James once neglected, could testify to such a fact.
Lily Evans, who shunned him, could testify to such a statement.
It had started as an escape route, a mere distraction to keep the crowd entertained. To mislead the world of the implications his silence carried. It was supposed to be just one crumbled wall; one lie that started and ended in one conversation. But just as silence haunted him, the lies, the crumbled wall, pursued him. The foundations of his city, of his reality, of his maze, torn to pieces by one crumbling wall. Suddenly James found himself exercising as a constructor; putting up make- pretend walls, patching holes, and cleaning the drainage so that the consequences of his own actions did not gut him whole.
A pretend confession in the security of his dorm, with his closest friends, turned into a murmur through the halls of Hogwarts, a rumor that spread like wildfire, and brought back grains of expectation; expectations of a grand proposal. The grains, first insignificant, but as accumulated, unbearable, forced upon James the necessity to design his first love confession.
James was an expert at being a hypocrite, he knew how to sell a lie. How to act for his life sake. An art he had learnt to perfect. Maybe James did not understand love, or romance by that matter, maybe, as of late, the thought of romantic feeling brought a nauseating feeling to his gut that settled to ruin his mood and make the deafening silence all the more louder. But for all he lacked the experience or the feeling, James mastered the art of a good show. A show of ridicule– perhaps if his attempts at conquering the heart of the redhead were vain in their interpretation, if he manipulated the crowd and managed, likewise, to bully Lily into hating him, then, he’d be free of the lie.
James cleared his throat, his stomach knotted with a bitter mixture of resentment and anticipation. He felt the eyes of the Great Hall on him, and despite the sourness brewing inside, he couldn’t deny the thrill that came with being the center of attention. He always loved the spotlight; the one that came from knowing you were a king and your subjects wanted you on the throne. James hadn’t felt that in years, and he craved it. James was an awful person. He was becoming more and more accustomed to such a fact, and, like that, the confession made it onto his list, written in a tiny cursive letter, a side note that highlighted the word: freak.
Climbing onto the bench, he already felt the weight of the moment dragging on him. His movements were deliberate, over-exaggerated like an actor on stage, but his heart wasn’t in it. His smirk faltered, but he forced it to stay, knowing all eyes were on him. He had to do it, after all. He was pushed into this. Forced. He didn’t have the luxury of just walking away.
“HEY! EVERYONE!” His voice boomed, forced, ringing through the hall as he clapped his hands together. The echo only amplified the hollowness that consumed him. He spread his arms wide, putting on a show because that was what was expected of him.
Expected.
Expected.
Fucking expected.
Sometimes James felt as if he was burning out in expectations. Sometimes it dawned on him that he stood in the fire willingly. He chose to torch. Sometimes he thought about the fact that he could call a firefighter. He never did.
His eyes flicked briefly to Lily, but he quickly looked away. “I have something super important to say, so... just, like, stop chewing for a sec and listen!”
He turned slowly, dramatically, as if he rehearsed it a hundred times in his head—which he had. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, and yet he loved how they all looked at him, waiting for his next move.
He hated that he loved it.
His hand shot out toward Lily, pointing with an exaggerated flourish. “You. Yeah, you,” he said, his voice quieter now, dripping with false confidence, his bravado a shell to hide the bitterness creeping up his throat. “I can’t keep this inside anymore because it’s literally EATING ME ALIVE!”
Eating him alive. The words weighed heavily in his mouth, almost choking him. He was eaten alive, but not by love—by this spectacle, by the need to perform when all he wanted was to disappear. But the noise of his show shadowed the silence creeping with untold secrets.
He paused, letting the tension build because that was what they wanted, right? They wanted the show. Not him. Not the real him. James never gave the real him; it was a looming thought that made that statement all the more daunting, the thought of whether James himself knew who he really was anymore.
Behind the spectacle. Behind the pretend adequacy. Behind all the twisting and burning out.
“Every time I see you,” he said, pressing his hand against his chest dramatically. He dragged it down, feeling ridiculous, like a puppet playing out some twisted, romantic tragedy. “My heart does this crazy, stupid thing where it feels like it’s gonna burst out of my chest and run a marathon. I can’t even think straight anymore!”
His voice cracked, just like he planned, loud and almost laughable. He heard the giggles, the whispers spreading through the hall, and for a fleeting second, it felt good. It felt like control. But then the resentment surged back, sharp and acidic. Why was he doing this? Why did he have to perform this?
“And honestly,” he said, louder now, his words dripping with fake enthusiasm, “it’s been like this for months. MONTHS, okay? And I’ve tried so hard to be cool about it, to, like, pretend everything’s normal, but I CAN’T. I just CAN’T.”
He threw his arms out wide, turning once again, making sure the crowd was still with him.
He played them, and it worked. They were leaning in, laughing, whispering. But inside, he was fuming. The confession wasn’t for Lily, and it sure as hell wasn’t for him. It was for them. The audience.
It struck James, in some of his sleepless, maniac nights, that he thought himself more important than he actually was. That he thought people cared more than they did. That there was no audience. But then, he’d wake up, lingering resentment, looming silences, and the paranoiac sensation that he was being watched and evaluated took over his sanity.
“So, here it is... I’m just gonna say it.”
There was a long pause, longer than necessary, but he stretched it out anyway. They were waiting. He practically felt their anticipation thick in the air. His heart raced, but not because of Lily, not because of the confession. He was angry.
Angry at himself, angry at the performance, angry at the expectation weighing on him.
“I... LOVE YOU.” The words tasted like ash, but he said them loudly, with all the dramatic flair he could muster, throwing his arms wide again. “LIKE, REALLY LOVE YOU.”
The giggles erupted again, louder this time, and James forced a grin, though it felt perverse. He glanced around, soaking in the attention even as it burned. This wasn’t what love should be, but here he was, playing it out like a bad joke.
“And I don’t care who knows it!” he yelled, leaning into the performance, his resentment turning the words bitter in his mouth. “I don’t care if the entire school knows that I am completely and utterly obsessed with you!”
His chest tightened, but he pushed forward, leaning in closer to Lily, though his eyes barely met hers. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not really.
“You’re the reason I wake up in the morning, the reason I can’t focus in class, and—this is embarrassing—but I’ve literally written your name in my notebook so many times it’s starting to look like I’m casting some kind of weird love spell.”
James hoped no one was ever curious enough to look upon his notes because between line and line, they’d find evidence of a lovestruck teen, but they wouldn’t find Lily’s name in it.
The laughter swelled again, and James felt the familiar rush of adrenaline. The crowd was eating it up, and he hated how much he thrived on it. He forced another breath, louder than necessary, feeding the show. Feeding the lie—it was at times like that, that James understood why the Sorting Hat attempted to sort him into Slytherin.
“You have a frantic yearning to be loved, and you would burn the world if it meant the scratch was satisfied, therefore I see your future belongs to—”
With a sweeping gesture, he addressed the room. “And now, EVERYONE knows!” His voice was lighter, more playful, but inside he cringed. “So, no more hiding it. I’m putting it all out there, in front of EVERYONE—because that’s how much I care about you!”
He finally turned fully to Lily, and the mask slipped, just a bit. His voice softened, but only because it was part of the act. He still didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t dare. He couldn’t face the reality of the moment.
“So... yeah, um, that’s it. I LOVE YOU! So, what do you say? Wanna, like, go out sometime?” His grin stretched wide, but it felt like a noose tightening around his neck. The crowd was on edge, waiting for her response, but James already knew he’d lost. The show was over. And he hated every second of it.
Lily’s face flushed red, her eyes narrowing as James finished his over-the-top confession. The moment he caught her gaze, he knew—she saw right through him. Through the grand gestures, the hollow words, the forced charm. She saw the performance for what it was: empty, a farce meant for everyone but her. There was no warmth in her eyes, only a fiery disgust that burned through his carefully constructed act.
She didn’t hesitate. Her hand whipped through the air with a sharp crack as it connected with his cheek, the sound echoing through the hall like thunder.
The room fell silent, stunned by her reaction. Lily’s voice was low but venomous. “You’re a joke, Potter,” she hissed, her eyes burning with fury, “And you won't be a joke of me!” Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the Great Hall, leaving behind a trail of whispers and wide-eyed stares.
James stood frozen for a moment, his cheek stinging, his heart pounding. But as the doors swung shut behind her, a strange, unexpected sense of relief washed over him. She saw the truth. The show was done. The tension, the pressure to perform—it was all over.
And for a fleeting second, he almost felt lighter. He had hated every moment of the confession, and now, finally, he was free from it. Free from the uncertainty; Lily hated him.
h
a
t
e
d
h
i
m
hated
hated
hated
him
him
him.
And with hate, with that, James could live. If the mere thought of it brought him to his knees, ill to his stomach, emptying its content like he wanted to get every part of him that could ever produce such emotion, whatever. He could still live with it. If it came instead of adoration. If it came from Lily, a girl James was deliberately using to hide and manipulate the crowd.
James could conceptualize why such an emotion could be borne. He could tolerate it. He could exploit it.
James Potter was an awful person.
Peter Pettigrew, who James once neglected, could testify to such a fact.
Lily Evans, who shunned him, could testify to such a statement.
Remus Lupin, who James deserted, could testify to such a fact.
James resented Remus.
Lately, James found himself resenting Remus for a lot of things. For the way he spoke, with that slightly broken accent. For the way they shared almost every class, making it impossible to ignore him. For the way Remus seemed to constantly invade James' thoughts without permission. For how he had taken over James' life. For being such a great friend, even though James couldn’t stop wanting more. But most of all, James resented him for the way he looked at Sirius, like all his deepest desires were reflected in Sirius' eyes. And for the way James could accept Remus liking boys, but couldn’t bring himself to accept that same truth about himself.
James Potter had grown to become a loathing young man.
James Potter was a fucking coward.
He fled, and hid and ignored. He took it upon himself to wake up late, or extremely early every morning to sneak off his dorm before he could cross paths with Remus, or dreadfully, find him shirtless again. He skipped meals and deserted himself from the common room at common hours. He forced a first year hufflepuff to teach him the ways into the kitchen. He delved into his studyings like a one-sighted animal. He attached Sirius or Peter, like dogs, to his every step to avoid one-on-one interaction with Remus fucking Lupin.
He fled, and hid, and ignored. He tired the entire Hogwarts population confessing his love to Lily like a broken record, repeated scenarios that brought a sense of deja-vu. James monopolized Sirius’ attention, pretending the insistent and constant planning and conversations about methods to win over a girl’s love did not make him ill.
He fled, and hid, and ignored. James learnt breathing exercises, and practiced them, every time he caught Remus’s stare on Sirius. He did not give voice to the jealous thoughts that resented Sirius. He did not let the connotation of his unrelenting, unconscious, attention to all Remus Lupin themes carried. He pretended the notebooks covered in Remus’ name were normal, common even. That the amount of time and effort he spent investigating and turning over every book known to man, in search of a solution – that did not exist – was just the product of a worried friend.
He fled, and hid, and ignored. He spent nights biting his nails, staring into the round moon, full in its content. His head driven into the darkest part of the forest, pictures of a distraught Remus painted in his pupils every time he dares close his eyes. James let himself think all of it, the all overwhelming emotion, did not mean anything.
He fled, and hid, and ignored. He did it so much, all the time, that he became sloppy. He had become comfortable in his routine and forgotten to lock his drawer. Had let Sirius slip away from his side to Mary. Had not remembered Peter did it in classes. Had forgotten to check Remus was in his. He had let himself be comfortable in his routine, and had let the chaos harboring within him room free.
The problem about controlling everything, about manipulating reality, about manipulating perception was that it was a constant effort. James did not get to stop trying, because if he did, the life he had constructed, the solar system he cas curating would collapse into itself.
James never stopped trying, and still it was not enough. Trying was not enough to sustain the life and stability of a universe. The collapse of the universe of this story began, like any other, with the opening of a door; a door that would not close.
As James pushed open the door to their dorm, helpless to his ignorance, the scene before him struck him immediately. The room, although usually so meticulously messily kept, lay in disarray. Notes and papers were scattered across the floor like a chaotic mosaic, some crumpled, others torn. James noticed his handwriting scattered around all the notes, his eyes immediately darted to his bedside and was filled with a dreadful feeling to his gut. The once-organized stacks of parchment had been thrown haphazardly, forming piles that seemed like small, abandoned islands in a sea of clutter.
James’s heart raced as he stepped into the chaotic scene before him. The sight of the scattered notes on the floor was like a jarring punch to the gut. The carefully compiled observations and theories he had kept hidden for months were now laid bare, a testament to his own obsessive and conflicted feelings about Remus. The realization that Remus had found them brought a wave of guilt and anxiety crashing over him.
In the midst of this disarray stood Remus, his usually composed appearance shattered by turmoil. James wanted to erase the crease of worry and anger from Remus's face. He wanted to fix it.
Fix it.
Fixit.
Fix it.
He hates you!
Fix it.
Fix it.
Fix it.
You can’t fix this.
Remus’s face was pale, his calm eyes wide with panic and despair. His brown hair was tousled and disheveled, falling into his eyes as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly. His clothes were rumpled, with the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows and his tie loosened, hanging askew. His hands trembled as they clutched a handful of scattered notes, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.
“Remus?”
Remus’s breathing was shallow and rapid, and his gaze darted anxiously between the scattered papers and James. His lips moved in a near-silent mutter, his words barely coherent as he tried to articulate his fear. The intensity of his emotions was palpable, his usually serene demeanor replaced by an unsettling sense of urgency and desperation.
“Hey, Remus, look at me” James tried to reach out, with small caution steps, like trying to reach a scared animal. But Remus took a step backwards.
“I- you. Fuck it all makes so much sense, of course, you knew!” Remus’s voice trembled with an edge of raw desperation as he spoke. Each word seemed to be squeezed out through clenched teeth, his tone quivering as if the act of speaking might unravel him further, “You fucking know”
“Remus, I-”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Remus’s voice blazed with an intensity that was both furious and distraught, like a wildfire consuming everything in its path. “You dont get- fuck me! You knew! And of course,” his words burn like acid, bitter to hear “you are fucking James Potter you could not just dissert me from school, expose me and let it be done with, no! You are too good for that, are you not? But you hate me now, don’t you?”
“Remus, no-”
“It all makes sense, all of it, it makes so much fucking sense. How could I be this stupid? There I was, driving myself mad, scratching my foggy memory for something, anything, I had done wrong for you to ignore me. And fuck, it never did occur me you knew I was a werewolf.” Remus shook his head vigorously, as if trying to rid himself of the thought, as if he could not believe it, “That you hated me because I am a fucking werewolf!”
In a strange sense of deja-vu, James choked out, “I don't hate you”
“I disgust you then, whatever.” and suddenly, like a light switch turned, Remus rushed forward, and James could see it, the survival instinct that flamed in Remus’s eyes. Remus grabbed James’s arm with a tight, desperate grip, his fingers digging in as if to anchor himself in the moment. “I don't care what you think of me, but you can’t tell anyone James, you can't. Please, I am begging you, if you ever cared for me, if you ever thought of me as a friend, for even a second, please, don’t say anything. I promise to keep out of your way, I will even ask to change dorms”
James stood there, feeling as though he were trapped in a whirlwind of shattering glass and searing flames. Each word Remus uttered was a jagged shard cutting into him, exposing the raw, bleeding core of his guilt. The sight of Remus, so frayed and vulnerable, tore at James’s heart like a relentless storm. He could feel his insides unraveling, a painful realization dawning that he had been the architect of this emotional tempest.
The cruel irony of the situation struck James with the force of a thunderclap. Here he was, ensnared in a tragedy of his own making; where his own unspoken love for Remus had twisted into a cruel parody of hate. It was as if his affection had become a double-edged sword. The bitter taste of this realization lingered in his mouth, a stark reminder of a twisted fate where his self heatread, born from a feeling of love, led to more hate.
It was cynical how closely related love and hate seemed to be. How swiftly could adoration turn into disdain.
“Oh, Remus” faintly, James remembered his first year self, who stood in this same room staring at Peter and apologized for hurting him, faintly James remembered he would do better. That he’d become adequate. If his younger self were there he’d be so disappointed in who he had become. “You don’t disgust me, Merlin, if you knew you’d know just how ridiculous it is to think that. I don’t care that you are a furry little thing,”
At that Remus cracked a smile.
“I don’t care that you howl at the moon or whatever kinky thing you like to do, I don’t care, Remus. To me, it doesn't matter. But I know that to the world it does. There are some things this world is not ready to accept, corrupted in its views, and I wish they could see just how amazing you are, not despite, but because you are a werewolf. But they don’t, and I am not naive, so I wouldn't dream of ever telling anyone anything you would not want me share, like, for example that you like to eat chocolate for breakfast, those kinds of sins I leave for you to confess to”
The room seemed to hold its breath, the silence between them heavy with unspoken fears and filtered truths. The scattered notes and disheveled papers lay like fallen leaves, remnants of a storm that had ravaged his composure. Remus’s figure was taut with a fragile, palpable tension, every muscle coiled in a blend of dread and desperation.
The silence was a stark contrast to the earlier chaos, and it felt as though time itself had slowed, stretching out each heartbeat into an eternity. James could see the vulnerability in Remus’s eyes, a raw and exposed truth that seemed to lay open like an unprotected wound. James waited, his breath caught in his throat, as if the very air around them stood still in anticipation The weight of Remus’s silent plea pressed heavily upon James, each moment stretching into an agonizing pause, the weight in his shoulder growing.
James loathed silence.
And then, “Why have you been ignoring me? If it’s not about the werewolf thing, did I do something wrong?” Remus was stifled by a choking sense of hesitation, he looked like a hit puppy.
James felt momentarily paralyzed, his mind racing as he struggled to find the right words. His mind raced, raced through the same streets it had that first night, when Sirius had asked about Lily. He raced through the same twist, ending in the same dead ends, his maze making a mockery of him.
Most of the time James felt like he was merely compensating for his own failures, trapped by insecurities he couldn’t quite shake. His voice faltered as he tried to make sense of his feelings, as he tried to say something, anything at all. James remembered a time where his vowel felt pressed all the time, remembered a time he had driven Remus mad with all his incoherent rambles.
James struggled to understand when he became incapable of speaking. There was a part of him that conceptualized the fact that even then, when his stream of thoughts spilled out of him in an interrupted monologue, he never really communicated.
“James?” Remus’s voice had been soft, almost pleading.
James found himself stuck in a nightmare, unable to move or speak. He had wanted to tell Remus something—anything—but the truth was tangled in a web of fear and inadequacy. His thoughts a storm, unable to settle on what he truly wanted to say.
He was never exceptionally good at talking to Remus.
“James?” Remus repeated, his voice breaking.
“Remus, I—” James started, but the words caught in his throat. The confession he had wanted to make stuck.
James was a fucking coward. He had wanted to tell Remus I like you, but the thought of it had felt like a knife twisting in his gut. Instead, weakly, irritated, he uttered, “I see the way you look at Sirius,” the words slipped out before he could stop them. The bitterness in his voice had been unintentional but unmistakable.
“What?” Remus asked, stunned and confused.
James felt the sting of regret as he saw Remus’s face crumple. However, making a blind eye to his regret, held tight to his fears, desperate to escape a confession, paralyzed by the concept of yet another proof of his inadequacy. Built by a burning rage product of self hatred, James did not take it back, he took the poisoned knife and twisted it deeper. “You like him, don’t you?”
“James—”
“Yeah, you do. Of course you do. Sirius is great,” James continued, his voice tinged with a harshness he couldn’t quite hide. “He’s nice to look at, witty, smart.”
Unlike me, he is everything I wish I were.
Of course you like him and not me.
No one ever likes me.
Why won't anyone ever like me?
What is wrong-
What is wrong-
You know what
You know what
You know what is wrong with you
You
You know
You know what is
You know what is wrong
Wrong
Wrong wrong wrong
W
R
O
N
G…
You
Too much
‘You are too much’
Too weird.
Too nice.
Too much to handle.
Too much to like, too much to love.
“James, I don’t like Sirius,” Remus said firmly, almost supplicating James to believe him. “I don’t like boys.”
“The same way you’re not a werewolf,” James muttered, the words slipping out in a moment of raw fragility. Sometimes James got scared by his sharp tongue. Sometimes he wondered if all the things he hid, all the awfully bad things he thought, all the anger and resent hebrew inside and never gave voice to where the real him. At moments like that he supposed it was true.
“James...” Remus looked at him, confusion and hurt mingling in his eyes.
“It’s okay, Remus,” James whispered softly, tired, trying to offer comfort. James was so fucking tired. He tried so hard, all the time. And it was never enough. He was not enough. It didn’t matter how much he twisted and bent himself, he was always compensating for his shortcoming. He was always left limping and bone tired, his relentless motivation exposed to its limit, his patience exploited until he exploded.
James was just so tired. Tired of trying and failing; of letting people down, of not being what others expected, of not studying enough, of not being good enough.
ENOUGH
e e e e e e e e
n n n n n n n n
o o o o o o o o
u u u u u u u u
g g g g g g g g
h h h h h h h h
e
n
o
u
g
h
enough enough enough
fucking enough
James just wanted to lie down and die. To stop, stop trying. He was just so tired. “I like boys too. I’m completely unaccountable, in love with boys, and I hate it.”
So tired.
“James, can we talk about literally anything else?”
Remus was tired too. They laid on the floor between the torn papers staring at the ceiling in silence.